Writing – Page 2 – Jordan Raddick

Except they weren’t: Count Victor Lustig

Photo of Robert V. Miller — Robert V. Miller, aka
Count Victor Lustig

Count Victor Lustig (1890-1947) was an Austro-Hungarian nobleman in the early 1900s. A brilliant businessman who was fluent in several languages, he lived a life of leisure on ocean liners, traveling back and forth between France and the United States. He made his fortune on these ships, selling his most famous invention: the money box. It was a device, the size of a large suitcase, that printed out a fresh new $100 bill each and every day – and Lustig was its proud inventor.

Do I even need to say it this time? Except he wasn’t.

There is no such thing as a money box, and Lustig wasn’t even a real Count. He was born as Robert V. Miller in Hostinné, Austria-Hungary (now part of the Czech Republic). Lustig was just one of his many aliases, but it was his favorite, and is the name by which he has gone down in history – as the greatest con man who ever lived.

First class on a transatlantic ocean liner is the perfect place to run a confidence trick, or con. Fabulously wealthy complete strangers were thrown together for exactly one week, with nothing to do but try to impress each other with their fabulous wealth – and then they were almost sure to never see each other again.

A photo of a suitcase, not a money box — Not a money box. Will not print money.

And the money box was the perfect con to run in such a setting. It looked complicated, full of gears and levers and whirring noises, but its secret was its simplicity. In an unassuming unmarked box on the side of the machine, Lustig has pre-loaded around ten $100 bills, on top of a stack of bill-sized blank paper. Each day, on schedule, the money box printed out a $100 bill with great fanfare (corrected for inflation, that would be about $1,200 today).

Lustig would make small talk with marks (the con artist’s term for the person they are in the process of swindling) at the beginning of the voyage. He would gain their trust, then swear them to secrecy while showing his greatest invention.

When the mark inevitably asked where they could get their own money box, Lustig would initially refuse to disclose anything more. But as the week went on, he would relent, and say, well maybe I could sell this money box, if the price were right. Sometimes he would get two or more marks to engage in a bidding war, driving up the price.

Ultimately, he would sell the machine for $10,000 or more. He would wish a fond farewell to the mark, promising to write and to totally look them up next time he was in America. By the time the mark noticed that the money box was now a blank paper box, Lustig would be on the return voyage, running the same con on a new mark.

His record sale came in the 1920s, when he sold a money box to New York City gambling ring for $46,000. Subtracting the $1,000 in preloaded bills and corrected for inflation into 2018 dollars, he made a nice profit of half a million dollars.

But this is just part one of the story of Victor Lustig. We haven’t even gotten to the part where he vanished a jail cell on the third floor in Manhattan, in broad daylight. Or the time Al Capone called him the most honest man he ever met, while handing him a check for $5,000. Or his most famous con.

Count Victor Lustig sold the Eiffel Tower. Twice.

Photo of the Eiffel Tower — Not for sale

In 1925, he moved to Paris, set up an office in the city’s most expensive hotel, and announced that the Eiffel Tower was being sold for scrap.

Except it wasn’t.

This of course sounds completely ridiculous today, but in 1925, it was just believable enough to work. The Eiffel Tower then was not the beloved Paris institution that it is today. It had been built as a temporary exhibit for the 1889 World’s Fair, intended to be dismantled at the end of the event. They just never got around to tearing it down, and 36 years later it was starting to show its age. The French Government had no long-term plan, and rumors were swirling about what would happen to the ugly-but-not-yet-so-ugly-it’s-beautiful monument.

Count Victor Lustig read about some of those rumors in the newspaper, and came up with a CUNNING PLAN. He looked up the city’s most prominent scrap metal dealers and wrote them letters posing as Deputy Director of the Ministère de Postes et Télégraphes (a French government agency, now split into La Poste and Orange S.A.). When dealers came to visit, he told them of the city’s plan (which existed only in his head). When one dealer was ready to sign up, Lustig casually mentioned that, hey, it’s tough to live on a civil servant salary.

That last part was a stroke of genius. The scrap dealer got the message and offered some extra cash as a bribe – both giving him some extra money and ensuring that the mark didn’t try to work with anyone else, like someone in the real ministry. As soon as he had the cash in hand, Lustig got the hell out of Paris.

The next week, the mark showed up at the Ministry to collect the Eiffel Tower scrap iron permit, and was laughed out of the office – and he was too embarrassed to go to the police.

And so, the next year, Count Victor Lustig returned to Paris and did it all again.

Except they weren’t: Major William Martin

The grave of Major William Martin
(Wikipedia user Rufito)

April 30, 1943, off the coast of Spain.

World War II had been raging for nearly five years, but the Allies were finally starting to gain the upper hand. Both sides knew that the next logical battlefront would be an Allied invasion of somewhere in Southern Europe. The Germans were on high alert for any advance knowledge of the Allies’ plans. Late that night, a Spanish fisherman found a body floating in shallow water – wearing a British Royal Marines uniform with a locked a briefcase chained around its waist – and reported it to local police. Spain was officially neutral but informally allied with Germany, so the find soon ended up in the hands of the Abwehr, the German military intelligence agency.

The briefcase contained documents identifying the late soldier as Major William Martin. Martin’s briefcase also contained a letter from a high-ranking British army officer, addressed to another, with instructions to Martin to hand-deliver. The letter covered a number of topics, but most importantly for the story, described in detail the planned Allied invasion of Greece. When Hitler read the letter, he ordered more than 5,000 German troops to Greece to repel the invasion, along with fighters and U-boats to support them.

Thanks to this move, the Allies encountered little resistance in their invasion of Sicily.

Which of course was the plan all along.

And thus, presenting the man who saved Europe: Major William Martin.

Except he wasn’t.

He really did save Europe, but he really wasn’t Major William Martin. He was really Glyndwr Michael (first name pronounced GLIN-dor), a homeless man from Wales who died from eating rat poison. It was either a tragic accident or a suicide – we’ll never know for sure. Either way, he had no living relatives, so he was perfect for the plan; no living relatives means no one to ask where the body went.

British intelligence agents dressed Michael in a Major’s uniform, provided him with fake documents (including fake love letters from a fake fiancée), and published a fake obituary in the London Times. They included the all-important letter, which contained a mix of easily-verifiable truths and completely fictional invasion plans. Then they loaded Michael/Martin’s body onto the submarine HMS Seraph. At 4:15 AM on April 30th, the Seraph surfaced, its commanding officer led a service of burial at sea, and the crew lowered the body into the water. The fisherman found the body the same day, and the rest is history.

After the war ended, the body of Michael/Martin was returned to the British and buried in the British section of Nuestra Señora de la Soledad Cemetery in Huelva, Spain, not far from where it was first found.

There the story remained until 1953, when the British decided to reveal the truth. The commanding officer of the intelligence operation wrote The Man Who Never Was, which became a movie of the same name. But even in those works, the identity of “the man who never was” was not revealed. Finally, in 1996, an amateur historian identified the body as Michael’s. And in 1997, the British took the unprecedented step of carving a new message into the gravestone:

Glyndwr Michael; Served as Major William Martin, RM

And soon after, this man who would have likely been forgotten got a memorial in his hometown, reading:

THE MAN WHO NEVER WAS
In recognition of services
to the allied war effort
by
GLYNDWR MICHAEL
of
Aberbargoed

4 February 1909 – 24 April 1943

Postscript

Thanks to one of my Internet Heroes, Tom Scott, for introducing me to this story thanks to his Things You Might Not Know video series:

Except they weren’t: Malba Tahan

Except they weren’t: An occasional series about people who are Not What They Seem

Malba Tahan was a famous writer from Baghdad who traveled throughout the Middle East, recording tales of his adventures.

Photo of Julio Cesar de Melo e Sousa, the man who created Malba Tahan

His most famous stories describe his travels with his friend Beremiz Samir, an Arabian traveler who was a mathematical genius. The pair traveled throughout the Muslim world like Watson and Holmes: Samir came up with ingenious solutions to practical mathematics problems, and Tahan recorded their adventures in beautiful, lyrical prose.

In 1949, soon after his death, Tahan’s work was published in Portuguese translation as O Homem Que Calculava (The Man Who Counted). It became an improbable bestseller in Brazil, where it remains one of its best-loved books. And so an unlikely hero to modern-day Brazilians is Malba Tahan, the Islamic Renaissance Man.

Except he wasn’t.

“Malba Tahan” was the fictional creation of Julio Cesar de Mello e Souza, a math teacher from Rio de Janeiro, who wrote the book to help teach his students how to solve word problems.

The result is beautiful, both in how Tahan/de Mello tells the tales and in how Samir/de Mello solves the problems. To appreciate the beauty, take a look at this, a translated version of one of the first stories in the book. It’s a bit long, but it’s definitely worth reading through:

We had been traveling for a few hours without stopping when there occurred an episode worth retelling, wherein my companion Beremiz put to use his talents as an esteemed cultivator of algebra.

Close to an old half abandoned inn, we saw three men arguing heatedly beside herd of camel. Amid the shouts and insults the men gestured wildly in fierce debate and we could hear their angry cries:

“It cannot be!”
“That is robbery!”
“But I do not agree!”

The intelligent Beremiz asked them why they were quarreling.

“We are brothers,” the oldest explained, “And we received thirty-five camels as our inheritance. According to the express wishes of my father half of them belong to me, one-third to my brother Hamed, and one-ninth to Harim, the youngest. Nevertheless we do not know how to make the division, and whatever one of us suggests the other two disputes.

Of the solutions tried so far, none have been acceptable. If half of 35 is 17.5, if neither one-third nor one-ninth of this amount is a precise-number, then how can we make the division?”

“Very simple,” said the Man Who Counted. “I promise to make the division fairly, but let me add to the inheritance of 35 camels this splendid beast that brought us here at such an opportune moment.”

At this point I intervened.

“But I cannot permit such madness. How are we going to continue on our journey if we are left without a camel?”

“Do not worry, my Baghdad friend,” Beremiz, said in a whisper. “I know exactly what I am doing. Give me your camel, and you will see what results.”

And such was the tone of confidence in his voice that, without the slightest hesitation, I gave over my beautiful Jamal, which was then added to the number that had to be divided between the three brothers.

“My friends,” he said, “I am going to make a fair and accurate division of the camels as you can see, now number 36.”

Turning to the eldest of the brothers, he spoke thus: “You would have half of 35 – that is 17.5. Now you will receive half of 36 – that is 18. You have nothing to complain about because you gain by this division.”

Turning to the second heir, he continued, “And you, Hamed, you would have received one-third of 35 – that is, 11 and some. Now you will receive one-third of 36 that is 12. You cannot protest as you too gain by this division.

Finally he spoke to the youngest, “And you young Harim Namir, according to your father’s last wishes you were to receive one-ninth of 35 or three camels and part of another. Nevertheless, I will give you one-ninth of 36, or 4. You have benefited substantially and should be grateful to me for it.”

And he concluded with the greatest confidence, “By this advantageous division, which has benefited everyone, 18 camels belong to the oldest, 12 to the next, and 4 to the youngest, which comes out to… 8 + 12 + 4 = 34 camels. Of the 36 camels, therefore, there are 2 extra. One, as you know, belongs to my friend from Baghdad. The other rightly belongs to me for having resolved the complicated problem of the inheritance to everyoneâ€™s satisfaction.”

“Stranger, you are a most intelligent man,” exclaimed the oldest of the three brothers, “and we accept your solution with the confidence that it was achieved with justice and equity.”

The clever Beremiz, the Man Who Counted, took possession of one of the finest
animals in the herd and, handing me the reins of my own animal, said, “Now, dear friend, you can continue the journey on your camel, comfortable and content. I have one of my own to carry me.”

And we traveled on towards Baghdad.

It’s a beautiful story, but how TF does the math work out? How does that make any sense?

The Math

Samir’s solution was clever, but it required some risk – he added into the herd the camel that Tahan was riding, making a new herd of 36. He then divided the new herd according to the father’s instructions: one-half (18) to the eldest, one-third (12) to the middle, and one-ninth (4) to the youngest. All three brothers were satisfied with this arrangement, which left two camels remaining. One, of course, was Tahan’s that had been added at the beginning. Samir requested the other as his payment for arranging this solution – and since all three brothers were satisfied, they agreed. Samir grabbed the strongest, most beautiful member of the herd, and the pair rode off together into the sunset.

It’s a happy ending. Everyone is satisfied, especially our heroes. And you have to admire Samir’s Raven-level trickeration in getting something for nothing. But how did he solve the problem?

When faced with a word problem, often the best first step is to write down what you know and what you want to find out. Before Tahan and Samir arrive, here is the situation the brothers face:

What we know

Total camels: 35
Fraction to each brother:
- Eldest: 1/2
- Middle: 1/3
- Youngest: 1/9

What we want to find out

How many camels should each brother get?

In theory, this should be an easy problem: for the eldest brother, divide 35 by 2, and repeat for the others. Thus, the eldest brother should get 17 1/2 camels – not too pleasant for the camel! And besides, half a camel is not that useful anyway. Clearly a better solution is needed.

Tahan and Samir arrive, Samir offers Tahan’s camel for the herd, and the problem changes. Now we have:

What we know

Total camels: 36
Fraction to each brother:
- Eldest: 1/2
- Middle: 1/3
- Youngest: 1/9

What we want to find out

How many camels should each brother get?

Now we’re getting somewhere.

36 divided by 2 is 18, 36 divided by 3 is 12, and 36 divided by 9 is 4. Thus, the three brothers get eighteen, twelve, and four camels, all of which give them full camels instead of useless fractional camels.

Adding up all three brothers’ camelshare gives 18 + 12 + 4 = 34 camels, with two remaining from the herd. One was Tahan’s, one is now Samir’s. Everything is A-OK.

But where did that extra camel come from?

Re-read the father’s instructions again, carefully:

According to the express wishes of my father half of them belong to me, one-third to my brother Hamed, and one-ninth to Harim, the youngest.

At this stage, there are two ways to approach the problem. The slightly easier way is to convert the fractional shares. You can always multiply the top (numerator) of a fraction by any number, and the bottom (denominator) by the same number, and the fraction will be the same. One-half (1/2) is the same as two-fourths (2/4). So, let’s multiply each fractional camelshare by the number of camels, which is now 36. Thus, the father’s instructions now read:

According to the express wishes of my father 18/36 of them belong to me, 12/36 to my brother Hamed, and 4/36 to Harim, the youngest.

Or, if you prefer, you can convert the fractions to percentages (rounded to the nearest tenth of a percent):

According to the express wishes of my father 50% of them belong to me, 33.3% to my brother Hamed, and 11.1% to Harim, the youngest.

Either way, it quickly becomes clear: the father’s will was incomplete! The percentages don’t add up to 100%, so no matter how many camels were in the herd, some would be left over after the division.

Cool, huh?

Image credits

Adorable camels from wikipedia user Bernard Gagnon
Photo of Julio Cesar de Melo e Sousa from Instituto Malba Tahan

The Flag Test

A man holds the flag of Nepal at a parade If there’s one thing I am obsessed with – other than democratizing science, learning from data, evidence-based practice, people who aren’t what they seem, exploring the world with Google Earth, and Australian Rules Football – it’s flags.

A flag is a symbol of a group of people, a source of pride, and looks beautiful waving in the breeze. A flag represents all the best and worst impulses of humanity. When they all come together, like at the United Nations, you get a real sense of how we all come together as a world.

I’m not alone; there is a large and somewhat nerdy community of flag lovers called vexillophiles, from the Latin for “lover of flags.” We have an unofficial website, multiple YouTube channels, and an international organization (which of course has its own flag.

In my interactions with fellow vexillophiles, I have discovered an informal, tongue-in-cheek personality test, which is:

What do you think of the flag of Nepal? Is it kind of cool, or is it an Abomination Unto Flags?

Flag_of_Nepal

The flag of Nepal, shown in the photo above and the illustration here, is the world’s only non-rectangular national flag (although there are some sub-national nonrectangular flags, most famously the state of Ohio and the city of Tampa, Florida). It consists of two red triangles, the bottom one slightly larger. The top triangle has a stylized, symbolic drawing of the moon, and the bottom has a similar drawing of the Sun. Both triangles are outlined with a thin blue border.

To be in the first category, you don’t have to like the flag, it’s enough to say, “that’s kind of cool, I respect what they were going for there.” Being in the second category requires strong opinions about what does or does not constitute a “real” flag.

Your opinion on the Nepal flag correlates with many other things, especially your opinion about whether people should get off your lawn. It’s not an absolute predictor, and of course correlation is not causation, but it’s an effect that I have noticed.

Zero guesses which side is the “get off my lawn” side, and zero guesses which side I’m on.

(Spoiler alert, highlight to reveal: It’s cool.)

Nepal flag photo: Hom Lamsal, Nepal Republic Media
Nepal flag illustration: Wikimedia users Pumbaa80 and Achim1999.

Except they weren’t: Iron Eyes Cody

Except they weren’t: An occasional series about people and things which are Not What They Seem

A middle-aged Iron Eyes Cody, dressed in a traditional Native American cloak and with a feather on his head, in an undated publicity photo

To three generations of movie fans, Iron Eyes Cody was THE Hollywood Indian. He was born in Oklahoma in 1904 to a Cherokee father and a Cree mother. He spent his youth performing in traveling Wild West shows, where he taught himself the sign languages of other Nations. In 1924, he moved to California, and within two years was appearing as an uncredited extra in Hollywood.

His career took off from there, and he eventually appeared in more than 200 films and TV series, particularly Westerns. He played in films with A-list actors like John Wayne (The Big Trail in 1930) and Steve McQueen (A Man Called Horse in 1970). But his most famous role came at age 65 in a Public Service Announcement TV commercial that was an early advocate for environmental conservation movement. It’s horribly dated now, but it had a real impact on changing public attitudes:

Cody wrote an autobiography, died in 1999 at age 94, and is buried in the “cemetery of the stars,” Hollywood Forever Cemetery. He is in the mausoleum with his beloved wife Bertha, not far from stars like Victor Fleming, James Garner, and Marilyn Monroe.

Over a career spanning nearly 70 years, Iron Eyes Cody’s career perfectly traced America’s changing attitudes toward the people known first as Indians, then as American Indians, then as Native Americans â€” all the while staying true to his heritage as a Native American.

Except he wasn’t.

He was born as Espera Oscar de Corti in small-town Louisiana, the son of two immigrants from Sicily who ran the town grocery store. He moved to California at 19, where he used his dark skin, talent for telling a good story, and genuine acting talent to score a long and successful career as an actor.

The truth began to come out in 1996, when his half-sister gave an interview to the New Orleans Times-Picayune newspaper. de Corti/Cody denied the rumor, but it was officially confirmed after his death.

What do we make of his story? Was this the worst kind of cultural appropriation, the story of a white man literally taking on a fake Native American identity? Was it a well-meaning fib that had a happy ending and actually did some good? Did it start out for convenience, but then eventually de Corti managed to convince himself he really was Cody?

If it helps: he married a for-reals Native American woman, adopted two children from reservations in his fake-home state of Oklahoma, and spent much of his life advocating and fundraising for Native-led charities and causes.

Questions like these are why I find these except-they-weren’t stories so fascinating.

What do you think?